An Interesting Side to Tea
by lindsey and marie enterprises
Summary: Hobbit riddles exchanged between John and Sherlock...what could possibly go wrong? By Marie


_**Author's Note: Marie here! Let's just say...I got very, very bored.**_

John Watson tugged open one of 221B's small windows, appreciating the pleasant weather London was experiencing-for once. Hearing a noise, he walked into the kitchen and pulled the kettle off of the stove as it sang, pouring the hot liquid into two mugs before setting the pot back down again.

"What are you doing?" he asked his flat mate, walking into the living room with the steaming mugs.

The person in question, Sherlock Holmes, ran his hands through his stubbornly thick curls before accepting the hot cuppa and picking up the folder he'd been studying again. "This is the only piece of paper found at the crime scene-the one with the mother was murdered and the girl kidnapped, you remember-but it's a riddle. I've been at it for hours, and it's eluding me." The consulting detective shoved the folder towards his friend, almost upsetting his own mug of tea.

Accepting the folder, John sat down, reading the writing-hastily done, probably before the poor girl got kidnapped, he thought-slowly, to absorb the riddle fully.

_What has roots as nobody sees,_

_Is taller than trees,_

_Up, up it goes,_

_And yet never grows?_

"Mountain," John replied the second he finished reading, giving the paper back to Sherlock. "The answer is mountain. You've never heard that one?"

Sherlock re-read the riddle, scoffing at his flat mate. "She'd heard it before, then."

"Yes," John replied, sipping his tea. "I suppose that you've deleted riddles from your mind palace, seeing they're not important."

"I actually have quite a few still around here. Difficult ones, at that."

"I'd bet mine are harder."

The detective leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. "Tell me one, John. Let's see just how crafty you are."

It took John a moment, but he quickly collected his thoughts and spit out the first riddle he thought of.

_"Thirty white horses on a red hill,_

_First they champ,_

_Then they stamp,_

_Then they stand still."_

John gave himself a little pat on the back as Sherlock sat still for a moment, temporarily stumped. Suddenly, he blinked, as if the answer had popped him in between the eyes. "Teeth? Of course, it's teeth!"

"Very good," John congratulated, putting his mug down on the table and picking up the morning paper. But, before he could fluff it out, a soft, slow voice came from the other side of the room.

_"Voiceless it cries,_

_Wingless flutters,_

_toothless bites,_

_Mouthless mutters."_

John paused, thinking as Sherlock smirked, leaning back in his chair. As he ran the riddle over and over in his mind, he felt a gentle breeze coming from the open window lightly whisper on his cheeks. John sighed at the pleasant touch before his eyes flew open, staring at Sherlock.

"Wind," he smiled, knowing he was right. Before Sherlock could change the subject, John pulled another from his memory bank.

_"An eye in a blue face_

_Saw an eye in a green face._

_'That eye is like to this eye'_

_Said the first eye,_

_'but in low place_

_Not in high place.'"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sun on the daisies. An old one." Closing his eyes briefly, he opened them again and offered his riddle.

_"It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,_

_Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt._

_It lies behind stars and under hills,_

_And empty holes it fills. _

_It comes first and follows after,_

_Ends life, kills laughter." _

John took a deep breath, picking up his cuppa and taking a long drink with his eyes closed, running the riddle through line by line. Opening them again, he stared at the darkness of Sherlock's hair, how it sharply contrasted with the sun streaming in behind him...

"Dark," John breathed. "It's the dark." Sherlock huffed, about to get up before his friend spoke again.

_"A box without hinges, key, or lid,_

_yet golden treasure inside is hid."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Eggs. Don't patronize me, John." He looked upwards, as if trying to read the words from the ceiling before repeating them to John.

_"Alive without breath,_

_As cold as death;_

_Never thirsty, ever drinking,_

_All in mail never clinking."_

Now it was John's turn to answer quickly. "Fish. My mum taught me that one." He had to pause to collect his thoughts this time before smiling, unleashing his next riddle upon Sherlock.

_"No-legs lay on one-leg,_

_Two-legs sat near on three-legs,_

_Four-legs got some."_

Sherlock's ice eyes gleamed. "Now we're getting clever." He sat still, making sure his answer was perfect before voicing it. "A fish on a little table, a man at table sitting on a stool, and the cat has the bones. Very clever, John."

"Thank you," he mumbled, dreading the riddle to come. Sherlock laid down, threading his fingers together under his chin and closing his eyes. He laid this way for a long while, and a quiet caesura filled the flat. John was almost certain he dosed before he heard a deep rumble jolt him awake.

_"This thing all things devours:_

_Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_

_Gnaws iron, bites steel;_

_Grinds hard stones to meal;_

_Slays king, ruins town,_

_And beats high mountain down."_

John's brain launched into overdrive, his eyes snapping to Sherlock, who was sitting up, wide awake and having not said a word, his mobile in his hand. He walked quickly to his friend's side, standing between his chair and the strange figure in the door.

The man in the doorway had a young girl by the collar of her shirt, her hands tied and bleeding, which made John grimace. Her bright green eyes stood out in contrast to the dirt that had collected in her hair and on her skin. He tightened his grip on his gun, glancing down for a moment to make sure it was loaded before looking at the strange pair again.

"Release the girl," Sherlock said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Solve the riddle," the stranger hissed, not taking his eyes off John and tightening his grip on the girl.

John was at a loss, suddenly blank. The riddle kept swirling around in his mind, though he couldn't seem to process anything.

"Please," the girl whispered, whimpering at the sudden jolt she got from her kidnapper. John nodded, his heart breaking as he racked his brain for any possible answer. His eyes cut over to Sherlock, who was glaring daggers into the man and deducing everything he could from the mustard stain on his chin. John's gaze flicked back to the little girl, who seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with every passing second...

Wait.

Second.

"Time," John said softly, becoming bolder as he stood. "The answer, is time," he repeated, raising his gun at the man.

"Very...good," the stranger replied, narrowing his eyes at John. "Now."

_Now what?_ John thought, then it hit him. He had to give the other man a riddle. What could he use? All of his best were spent, and he couldn't bear to repeat one, knowing Sherlock would never let him live it down-or mock the human race until the end of time, especially if he used the egg one. He sighed, patting his pockets for inspiration.

"What have I got in my pocket?" he wondered aloud, patting his left trouser pocket curiously.

"You're kidding me," the man groaned. "Give another!"

"Nope!" Sherlock said quickly, before John could react. "That's the riddle you've gotten. Lose, and the girl stays with us-no exceptions. Three guesses!"

"Money!" the man said quickly. John shook his head, trying not to laugh. Did he look like a man who toted around money?

"String-oh, don't count that one!"

"Counted!" Sherlock sang. "One final guess."

"Lint-or nothing."

"Can't guess two things at once," John said quickly. "And...you were wrong both times, anyway."

The man, enraged, began to launch at John. Before he could, another hand reached up and smacked him on the back of the head with a pitcher.

"Three strikes, you're out," Lestrade said cooly, Mrs. Hudson hot on his heels.

"That was a good pitcher," she said sadly, the little girl running to John once her captor was dragged away.

Fishing through another pocket, John pulled out a little knife and began to cut the ropes around the little girl's wrists. "What's your name?"

"Caleigh," the little girl said. "My name's Caleigh."

"Nice to meet you, Caleigh. I'm John, that's Sherlock, and that nice lady is Mrs. Hudson. She'll get you some tea downstairs while Sherlock and I talk to the police, and I'll be down later to check these wrists. Does that sound all right?" Caleigh nodded, almost smiling at him. "Good. There, those nasty ropes are gone, so how about that tea?" Caleigh smiled, walking over to Mrs. Hudson and following her to the door.

"Well done, John," Sherlock said quietly.

"Pure luck," John muttered, earning a smile from his friend.

"Oh, Mister John?"

"Yes, Miss Caleigh?"

The girl's green eyes sparkled with curiosity. "What...what _did_ you have in your pocket?"

"Oh...I don't know." Reaching in, John grasped the object and pulled it out in a closed fist. "Let's see, shall we?" He opened his fist and found...

A small, plain, golden ring.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Where did _that_come from?"

John shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea."


End file.
